


Twenty

by cowboyguy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Common Cold, Gen, Sam's Birthday, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, Sneezing, Stanford Era, sneezefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboyguy/pseuds/cowboyguy
Summary: Sam's got a terrible cold and receives an unexpected -- ("Ha! Did you forget what day it is, dude?") -- visitor at his door.





	Twenty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateKintail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateKintail/gifts).



The doorbell rings with a harsh, buzzing sound, startling Sam awake. His hand instinctively goes under his pillow, searching for the knife that’s no longer there, and instead coming across a handful of wadded up tissues. He stares at them sleepily and then tosses them to the floor, pushing himself up from the bed and trying to get his bearings.

The doorbell buzzes again, and Sam stumbles to his feet, crushing his nose against his shoulder to muffle a sudden sneeze. 

_“hchshhh!”_

The lights are off in the living room, but it’s still daylight, and he squints as he comes into the room, wanting nothing more than to just ignore whoever it is and go back to bed. But with his luck, it’s probably one of his more annoying friends who won’t stop ringing until he opens the door. Grumbling under his breath, he pushes his messy hair away from his face and shuffles barefoot across the room to the front door, pressing one eye against the peephole to see who’s standing outside.

It’s not who he expects.

Startled, Sam wrenches the door open without even thinking about how bad he looks, or how messy his apartment is behind him. All thoughts have escaped his head, except for one.

“Dean? What are you doing here?” he asks, brows furrowed in confusion.

His brother is standing in his open doorway, with a couple of plastic grocery bags swinging from one hand and an amused grin plastered across his face. “I said I’d come, didn’t I?”

“But that’s not supposed to be for—“ Sam glances down at his watch, twisting the band back around his wrist until he can see the date listed in little digital numbers under the time. “Oh.”

Dean chuckles, placing one hand on Sam’s shoulder and edging past him into the apartment. “Studying too hard again, Sammy? You forget what day it is?”

“No, I was…” Sam trails off, swinging the door shut and turning around, catching sight of the messy coffee table, the couch strewn with blankets and a pile of throw pillows, tissues nestled in the corners of the couch, on top of the coffee table, and scattered across the floor near the trash can. He dives for the couch, trying to hide the evidence before Dean sees, but his brother has already noticed.

“It’s nothing, it’s just—“ Sam tries to answer, but he’s abruptly cut off as a tickle flares in his nostrils and he snaps forward with a quick, “ _heh’ENSHHH!_ –allergies. It’s just spring allergies.”

Dean looks unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

Sam sniffs defensively. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Dude, I’ve seen you sick enough times in my life to know the difference. Sit.” He points to the couch, eyebrows raised in the “I’m serious” look that Sam has seen far too often. Reluctantly, he obeys, taking a seat on one end of the couch and leaning forward, running his hands through his hair and subtly trying to massage away his lingering headache.

Dean sets his bags down on top of Sam’s tiny kitchen counter and starts unloading them, rearranging a couple of things in the fridge to fit a white cardboard container, and a handful of staple groceries that he knows Sam likes. Every time Dean visits, Sam tells him not to do this. And every time, Dean shows up with a bag of groceries, like a peace offering for not being able to be there more often.

Sam watches as he unloads several cans of soup and veggies into the cabinets, followed by a six-pack of boxed mac and cheese. All easy to make, all nearly impossible to screw up. Sam’s never been much of a cook, and Dean knows it.

“How’s school going?” Dean asks as he works, meandering around the kitchen like it’s his own home. “Finals coming up soon?”

Sam nods and is about to respond, but the itch starts up in his nose again and he pauses, drawing a careful breath as he tries to quell the feeling. It doesn’t help much, the feeling only intensifying until Sam is powerless to resist it any longer. He leans his head back, inhaling one shaky breath before he snaps forward with a harsh flurry of sneezes. _“HECHSHHH! hh’NNSHHHH! huh-huh-HTTCHHHH! AECHSHHH!”_

“Yeah, it’s just allergies,” Dean says sarcastically, and Sam unfolds himself to find Dean standing there in front of him, tissue box held at the ready. He pulls out a couple of tissues and hands them over, and Sam gratefully grabs them and attends to his stuffy nose.

“Id’s a cold,” Sam admits, sniffling against the sudden congestion brought on by the sneezes. “But id’s ndo big deal. I’ll be fide in a few days.”

“And until then you’ve got me,” Dean replies. He takes a seat on the beat-up chair next to the couch, still ready with the tissue box for the next inevitable fit of sneezes.

“Deand…” Sam sighs. “You really dod’t deed to…”

“I’ve got a couple days. Just let me stay and take care of you, alright? You sure look like you could use it.”

“If I say no, will you stay, anyway?” Sam asks, pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Probably,” Dean replies with a cheeky grin.

“Fide. I give up.” Sam tosses up his hands and flops back against the couch, admitting defeat. But the movement shifts the congestion in his head and he lurches sideways as another sneeze escapes him. _“HRRSCHHHH!”_

Something soft flutters into his lap and he opens his eyes to find another couple of tissues that Dean has tossed his way.

“Blow your nose,” Dean instructs. “It won’t stop until you do.”

“Id’s dot godda sdop adyway,” Sam answers, the congestion in his voice continuing to build. He rolls his eyes but presses the tissues against his nose, holding them there as he tries his best to exhale, his nose completely blocked on one side. It takes a couple of seconds and then the congestion finally shifts around in his head enough to allow him one soggy, stuffy-sounding blow. He fumbles for more tissues, dropping the first soaked batch into the trashcan by his feet, and tries to empty his nose again, without a lot of success. He just feels endlessly congested, and nothing he does is going to make it any better.

“That help?” Dean asks, and Sam glances at him above the third handful of tissues long enough to reply,

“Doe. I’b still… _HRRRSHHHH! AH’NGXTSHH! HMPFSHHH!_ — codgested.” He swipes at his dripping nose, groaning in discomfort. “You did’dt brig ady bore tissues in those bags, did you?”

Dean looks sympathetically at him and replies, “No, but I can go out and get more if you need them.” He pushes himself up from the chair and ambles across the apartment to check the tiny linen closet next to the bathroom. Reaching inside, he grabs another box of tissues and carries them back across the room. “You’ve still got this one, too,” he says, holding up the box. “I’ll go get more stuff later.”

Sam nods miserably. “Blease.” The cold had hit too fast for him to go out and stock up on supplies. One night he was at home studying, feeling slightly sniffly, and the next morning he’d woken up with a full-blown cold, too exhausted to get out of bed. Lucky for him, his occasional allergies meant he usually had a reasonable supply of tissues on hand, but he’d been quickly running through them, and he’s grateful that Dean is here. There’s nothing more miserable than having to walk clear across campus to the really-not-convenient convenience store to pick up tissues and decongestants when all you want to do is collapse into bed and muffle endless sneezes into your pillow.

“So, Sammy,” Dean starts, bringing him out of his thoughts. He looks up at his brother, still standing above him, spinning the tissue box in his hands. “Why don’t you go back to bed for a while, huh?”

“But you jusd got here. I haven’t seen you id mondths,” Sam protests. The last thing he wants to do is spend his brother’s entire visit unconscious, even if the exhaustion in his body _is_ constantly trying to drag him down. He inhales to say something else and is caught by a surprise sneeze instead, pitching forward and trying to miss spraying Dean. _“HKSHHHHCHUH!”_

Dean deftly steps out of the way, pulling more tissues out of the already-open box and offering them, waiting for Sam to blow his nose again before answering. “Dude. I’ll be here for a few days. You’re still gonna see me. How about I make a supply run, and you take a nap? I’ll be back before you know it, and I promise I won’t let you sleep too long.”

Sam shrugs, seeing the logic in his plan. And really, he wouldn’t mind a nap. His headache’s starting to come back again, brought on by the overwhelming congestion and only being partially able to breathe. He sighs and nods.

“Good.” Dean reaches forward, taking Sam’s arm and helping him stand before he nudges him gently in the direction of the bedroom. “I won’t be gone too long.”

Sam nods again on his way back to bed, stumbling halfway across the room as he buries a sneeze into his shoulder. _“HHGSSSHHHCH!_ …’Kay.”

“You forgetting something?” Dean asks, holding up the box he’d grabbed from the closet.

“There’s bore id the bedroom,” Sam counters, shuffling into the darkened room with a tired sigh and closing the door.

Dean spends the next five minutes taking stock of the entire apartment before he grabs Sam’s keys from the hook by the door and quietly exits the apartment.

 

* *

 

“Sammy?”

…

“Hey, buddy, you alive in there?”

…

Sam groans as he regains consciousness, pressing his face against the pillow in an effort to block out the light coming in from the living room. “Mrmngh…” he mumbles.

Dean’s voice is still there, somewhere next to him. “I promised I wouldn’t let you sleep too long, didn’t I? And besides, I’ve got some awesome decongestants and painkillers, and I’m guessing it’s probably been a while since you had any of either one.” 

There’s the sound of a pill bottle rattling, and it’s enough to wake Sam back up completely. He stretches under his blankets, yawning, and groans softly again as he turns over enough to see Dean standing there next to him, ready with pills and a tall glass of water. Sam dutifully pushes himself upright, holding out his hand for Dean to deposit the medicine into it. He chases it down with a long drink of water, wincing as he swallows. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“Hey, your voice sounds better,” Dean observes, taking the glass back after Sam finishes drinking.

“It’ll get worse again,” Sam answers, laughing ruefully. “Trust me. Once the sneezing starts…”

“Well, in the meantime, you wanna get up? I made you some soup,” Dean continues. “Or I could bring it in here.”

“No, I’ll get up.” Sam pulls back the blankets, shivering a bit at the change in temperature, and hauls himself to his feet, following Dean sleepily back out into the living area.

“Couch?” Dean asks.

“Couch,” Sam agrees, flopping heavily into it and curling up around his old friend, the half-empty box of tissues. He watches sleepily, head resting against the back of the couch, as Dean moves around the kitchen, grabbing bowls and spoons. He fills them both from a pot on the stove and brings them back over, carrying them on Sam’s single cookie sheet that he’s pretty sure he’s never actually used to bake cookies. Dean sets the bowls down on the coffee table, nudging a small pile of discarded tissues out of the way, and offers one up to Sam.

Sam leans forward to inspect the bowl, and is surprised to find that instead of the watered-down canned soup he’d been expecting, there’s a bowl of actually decent-looking chicken soup. It has carrots, and thick noodles, and plenty of shredded chicken, and Sam stares up at his brother in surprise.

“You made this?” he asks.

Dean grins. “I have secret superpowers.”

Sam smiles back, his mouth watering at the idea of eating his first proper meal in several days. But as he leans forward to grab the bowl from the tray, he once again feels the inevitable building, prickly sensation deep in his nose. He pauses, hand stretched out in mid-air and inhales, shaking his head slowly back and forth to tease the sneezes out. _“Heh…. Ihhh… hhhh…. HT’CHSHSHHH!”_ He presses himself back against the couch, flinging one arm up to catch the spray from the strong sneezes as they continue to rip through him. _“HKGXTSHHHHH! HHCHSHHHH! Hh-hh-hh—hehAH’ETTSCHHHH! GSHHHHuhhh…”_ The fit pauses for a second, allowing him to catch his breath, but the strong tickle is still there, not letting go, and he grabs desperately for the tissues that Dean offers, covering his dripping nose with them and blindly reaching out his other hand for the rest of the box. It lands with a gentle thud in his lap as he buries another couple of sneezes into the tissues. _“HGSHHHH! HH’RRRSHHHHH!”_

“Really blow this time,” Dean instructs.

Sam does, spending a couple of minutes and a couple dozen tissues trying to get his nose to feel slightly less congested. When he’s finally able to breathe somewhat normally, and the lingering itch to sneeze has abated, he leans forward to take the still-warm bowl of soup. The first bite is amazing, warm and soothing on his sore throat. The taste is delicious, and Sam makes a comment that his brother should abandon hunting and take up a career in the culinary arts, instead.

“Eat your soup,” Dean laughs, and Sam happily complies.

When he’s full and sleepy, he deposits the empty bowl back onto the tray and leans back on the couch, feeling better than he has in days. “Thank you,” he says breathlessly, grabbing one of the pillows from the other end of the couch and propping it behind him. “That was so good. Are you sure _you_ made that?”

Dean chuckles as he gathers up the empty dishes. “Says the guy who can barely boil water.” He stands and meanders over to the kitchen, dumping the dishes in the sink. “You feeling up for anything else?”

“What d’you mean?” Sam asks, sitting up a little as he tries to see what Dean’s talking about.

Dean is hunched over in front of the fridge, pulling out the white cardboard box he’d put in there earlier that afternoon. He turns away from Sam, pulling plates out of the kitchen, and when Sam looks up again, his brother is headed across the room carrying a small chocolate cake.

“Happy twentieth, Sammy,” Dean says with a grin.

“Wha…?” Sam says, momentarily speechless as a slow smile spreads across his face.

Setting the cake and a couple of plates and forks down on the coffee table between them, Dean explains. “I got it before I realized you were sick, but I hope you’re still up for some cake. Didn’t put any candles on it, though, because I don’t want your germy breath on my cake.”

“Fair enough.”

“Do you even have any candles?”

“Not so much.” Sam shakes his head.

“Not even those fruity, scented ones?” Dean teases.

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam takes the opportunity to kick his brother in the shin.

“Yeah, yeah. Happy birthday, bitch. Want me to sing the song?” Dean asks sarcastically, picking up a knife as he prepares to cut into the cake. _“Haaappy birthdaaay…”_

Sam turns away just in time. _“HUH’ETSCHHH!”_


End file.
